Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tetsuko imagines tearing the ceiling open, peeling back white tiles until the whole sky can pour in. March has come dressed in pale pink and butter-yellow buds, the kind of fragile brightness she’d trade this classroom for in a heartbeat.

Acne-ridden teens included.

Instead, there’s the scratch of chalk, the shuffle of shoes, the stale bite of dust - and Natsumi’s perfume, thick enough to choke on. As if drowning herself in chemicals could hide that eggplant-shaped nose.

Still, better her knockoff Chanel cloud than the teacher’s stale sweat. He’s worn the same shirt for a month straight and it’s a fair exchange that Tetsuko refuses to learn his name.

The eighty-seven staring back at her in red ink should make her reconsider - even the tangerine blossoms she doodled in the margins can’t disguise the failure. Not long ago it had been perfect, triple digits neat as a crown.

Then came the slow slide: a point here, four there, a ninety she tried to laugh off. And now not even that.

Sugihara’s smug little smirk, that ninety-nine smirk hovering just out of sight, makes it worse.

Eighty-seven is the ground giving way grain by grain, the proof that she’s slipping and can’t claw her way back fast enough. It means nights hunched over lamp-glare until her wrists ache and her eyes blur, until her mouth tastes like old paper, each fact hammered into place until memory bleeds into muscle. She can already feel the number settling at the kitchen table, heavy as lead, waiting for someone to glance at it and frown.

Her chest tightens. If she isn’t the genius they measure themselves against, then what is she? A face that peels open with pimples, a mouth that stumbles, a body that takes up space people would rather ignore. She imagines the thin, practiced tilt of their heads, the small, exacting questions they’ll ask. What happened? Didn’t you study?- and the answer is always the same: she didn’t try hard enough.

Eighty-seven means she’s slipping. Means she’s losing the only thing that ever made her tolerable.

Eighty-seven sits there like a wound she keeps picking at, and with every picked scab she proves she’s allowed to be let down.

Toman staff officer won’t appear on your college application. What are you doing? Is it worth it, to be ignored here too?

Her pencil digs a half-circle into the paper before skidding off, ink bleeding into a clover doodle. She presses harder, harder-

Then the glass of the window refracts and something else slips in: the courtyard tree, a smear of pale branches, and beyond it a silhouette that shouldn’t be there - a long coat, a slash of blond catching the sun. The tightness in her throat loosens for the barest second, like a stitch coming undone.

Shiori.

The sight of her is ridiculous and terrible and immediate; it yanks Tetsuko’s attention so violently the pen stabs the paper and leaves an ugly dot. From across the room she can’t really make her out - her eyesight won’t allow it - but the flashes are enough: a streak of gold, the blur of movement, the echo of a grin that catches the light. For a beat the calculus of marks, the verdict awaiting her, the list of ways she’s been failing - all of it tilts and blurs.

And just like that, the spiral breaks.

In its place comes annoyance, familiar and comforting.

Tetsuko told her not to hang around the school. She told her that this morning.

The ride over had been its own form of torture - Shiori tapping at her bedroom window at dawn, cigarette tucked behind her ear, smile stretched so wide Tetsuko knew she hadn’t slept a blink. She was a recipe for disaster even at her best; with clumped hair and dark half-moons under her eyes, she looked ready to set the day on fire. And yet Tetsuko still unlatched the window, like some fucked-up Rapunzel humoring her dollar-store Eugene.

How many times had she told Shiori to just use the doorbell like a normal person instead of scaling the facade like a stray cat? Wishful thinking. The idiot would rather risk breaking her neck than do anything the easy way. Midnight knocks, tapping when she was mid-change, leaning in through the curtains like it was the most natural thing in the world - normal boundaries didn’t seem to apply to her.

At least Tetsuko had already been pulling her socks on when Shiori appeared, this time.

Not that letting her in meant it came without complaint. Tetsuko had groaned as she shoved her books into her bag, muttering for her to go back the way she came.

“I can go by myself, you don’t have to take me.”

“Sure I do. What kind of girlfriend would I be if I didn’t?”

“You’re not my - ugh, shut up.”

And then she was on the back of that purple cheetah print bike, engine coughing to life, a belch of exhaust spilling into the humid air. Shiori had handed her the helmet - the one she’d “gracefully” offered Tetsuko for her fourteenth birthday, as a token of goodwill meant to convince her she could ride safely.

Tetsuko was still pretty sure it was stolen.

Tetsuko had also been keeping it on her desk and letting Shiori grab it each morning she insisted on dropping her off.

But this time, before she could protest, Shiori slid it onto her head herself, fingers brushing her jaw as she buckled it clumsily beneath her chin. Too careful for someone who laughed at any and all kinds of danger.

Tetsuko’s throat had tightened, but she hadn’t said anything. In that moment, putting it into words would have been making the gesture bigger than it had been - bigger than it had the right to be.

The tension had been broken by Shiori’s laughter - loud, careless, carried off by the wind with the snapping of her long jacket. The engine roared beneath Tetsuko’s thighs, rattling through her bones until her thoughts shook clean out of her head. All she could do was grip tighter and let the blur of air and asphalt swallow everything else.

That hadn’t stopped her from hissing when they reached the back gate: “Seriously. Don’t wait around here. People will see you. Just - go live your life or something, okay?”

Even if her only answer had been another sharp laugh, slurred by another cigarette already hung from Shiori’s mouth. No helmet to encumber her, of course.

And now, eight hours later, Tetsuko stares through the classroom glass and knows she’s still there.

The bell shrieks and she jolts in her seat. Chairs scrape back, desks bang, voices shoot up, the room shedding its skin all at once.

Sugihara lingers at the door, paper still folded in his hand, the one that carries the number higher than hers. He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t even meet her eyes, but she feels it anyway, the sting of being overtaken. A boy like that shouldn’t matter, and yet here he is, black eyes pinning her down more surely than any grade sheet.

She brushes past him, past the girls at the lockers who always move in a flock. They had matched her once - tan sprayed on in uneven streaks, hair bleached raw - but the day she made it hers, they stripped it all off. Their black roots now gleam under the fluorescents, their pale faces a mirror turned against her.

On another day she might have picked on Natsumi, needled her until the color rushed to her cheeks. On another day, the ugly comfort of that power might have steadied her. But today the thought only curdles: even the baboon-faced girl belongs somewhere, while she floats just outside the circle.

Their seventy-fives are fine, they’ll say. They have karaoke reservations. Three straws to one melon soda, laughter bubbling like cough syrup.

And this time, Tetsuko doesn’t have a hundred to buy back her worth.

What she has is -

Toman. Minnie, when her gaze doesn’t slip away. The founders, though her fists fall lighter, her voice blurs in the noise, and her ideas are always too much - too violent, too ambitious, too far out of orbit.

She has Hinata, in the spaces Michiru leaves. Michiru, in the scraps not claimed by Hinata or Minnie or Chifuyu or anyone else who matters more.

And beneath it all a single truth thuds through her: she is the surplus, the afterthought, the empty seat no one saves.

“OIIII, TETSU-CHAAAAAAAN!!!”

The courtyard freezes; Tetsuko, eyes stinging and pace too quick, barely notices she’s already spilled into the open before she looks up.

Purple leopard-print panels winking in the sun, chrome sharp enough to blind. Shiori straddles the bike like it belongs on a magazine cover, jacket shrugged off her shoulders, hair knotted back with its ragged shoelace tie. She looks older than she has any right to, all sharp lines and careless glamour - like a model who wandered off set and straight into their world.

The only movement breaking the spell is her arm waving back and forth in the air, her stupid smile unbothered by the attention.

Everyone sees her. Everyone.

The air bends around her presence. A boy from 3-C laughs too loud, the sound brittle in his throat. Behind Tetsuko, the locker-girls bite their lip gloss clean off, then glance again, unable to stop staring. Sugihara has gone stiff, his gaze dragging over her with greedy awe, already aware she’s a prize he’ll never touch.

And Shiori - Shiori sees only her.

Grin slicing wide, reckless, she cups her hands around her mouth and bellows again:

“YOU FORGOT TO KISS ME GOODBYE THIS MORNING!”

The words slice the courtyard in half. For a heartbeat, silence holds - then it shatters.

Gasps ripple like thrown stones. A few boys hoot, laughter jagged and mean, the kind that digs under skin. The locker-girls clutch each other’s arms, eyes huge, mouths open. Someone lets out a scandalized “ehhh?!” loud enough to echo against the walls.

Tetsuko’s face goes hot, every vein in her body screaming to swallow her whole. Her throat clamps shut around the answer she doesn’t give, the denial she can’t spit out with so many eyes on her.

She grips her bag tighter, manicured nails biting through the strap.

And she pushes straight past the bike without so much as a glance.

“Oi, Tetsu - wait!”

The bike clatters as Shiori swings off it, sandals slapping against concrete. She jogs after her, calling out, too loud, too familiar. Tetsuko clenches her jaw and keeps walking, cutting through the thinning crowd until the courtyard bleeds into side streets, quieter, though still littered with straggling students throwing her curious glances.

Shiori finally catches up - stupid long legs on a stupider girl - falling into step at her side. “Oi, wait up - what’s wrong with you?”

That’s what cracks it. Tetsuko whirls, bag strap biting her palm. “What’s wrong with me? Do you have any idea what they’re going to say after that? What I’m going to hear for weeks?!” Her voice breaks sharp enough to sting her own ears. “Why would you do something so - so stupid?”

Disappointingly simple insult.

More waits behind her teeth, foul and jagged - No-home, no-family, no-future. Street-corner slut. Stray bitch.

But something on Shiori’s face stops her.

For once, the grin falters, tugging uncertain at one corner as if it can’t decide whether to stay. Her hand comes up, scratches hard at the back of her neck, then drifts to her ear where the cigarette used to rest, fidgeting with nothing. Her eyes won’t hold steady - skittering sideways, down at the pavement, up at the sky - before she forces them back to Tetsuko. And when they land, all the swagger is gone. They’re smaller. Uneasy.

“...’Cause you looked sad.”

Her voice scrapes rougher than usual, like the words don’t fit her mouth. She shrugs one shoulder, gaze breaking again, as if the ground might swallow her if she stares too long.

“You looked like you were gonna cry. I just… wanted to make you laugh.”

The sentence hangs there, clumsy, regret bleeding through it, like a kicked dog hoping not to be chased off.

Tetsuko just stares.

The words don’t make sense at first, as if Shiori has spoken in some foreign tongue. Her shoulders are hunched, her grin gone lopsided, eyes shifting everywhere but hers - and it jars, seeing her like that. Loud, shameless Shiori suddenly small.

Her brain stalls. Laughter has never been for her, not for that.

I just wanted to make you laugh.

The sentence rattles around inside her head, knocking against neurons like a flipper, lighting up old and unwanted things. Notebooks slapped from her hands, ink bleeding across pages she’d spent hours perfecting. Chalk dust ground into her slippers so deep she’d leave white footprints down the hall. Boys leaning in close just to hiss freak, alien, bug-eyed know-it-all, until the words drilled cracks in her skull. Girls laughing too loud when she raised her hand, mimicking her voice, her posture, her every answer. Weirdo. Teacher’s pet. Ugly little brainiac.

Laughter had always been sharp-edged, made to slice her open. She learned early it was safer to be the one sharpening the knife.

And yet here Shiori is, still shifting awkwardly in front of her, like she expects to be bitten for the effort.

Tetsuko doesn’t know what to do with that. It feels dangerous, like touching a wound she didn’t know she had. Her chest clenches, a half-realization trying to claw its way up, but she pushes it back down. If she lets it out, it’ll get too big. Bigger than she can allow it to be.

Her throat aches. She grips her bag tighter, staring so hard at the cracked asphalt it blurs.

She hears her own voice before she’s decided to speak. “Why?” It cracks in the middle. “Why would you wait for me? Why do you… do any of this?”

The words scrape out ragged, more plea than accusation. Her heart pounds too loud in her ears. It feels like asking for something she doesn’t deserve, but she can’t stop the question once it’s free.

For a beat, Shiori just blinks at her, the question hanging between them heavier than exhaust. Her mouth opens, shuts again. Something flickers across her face - something too close to earnest - and for one terrifying second it looks like she might actually answer.

Then she snorts. Loud, graceless, like the sound could shatter what’s just passed. “Why? ’Cause I’m hopelessly in love with you, duh.” She throws her arms wide, the cigarette tumbling from behind her ear, grin snapping back into place. “You didn’t notice? Thought I made it pretty obvious.”

Tetsuko’s face burns. Before she can stop herself, her hand lashes out and smacks Shiori’s arm as hard as she can - which isn’t much.

“You’re unbearable,” she mutters, voice tight, the words crumbling somewhere between anger and something she can’t name.

Relief and disappointment, so intertwined she can’t tell which one is eating the other.

Shiori yelps theatrically, clutching her arm like she’s been mortally wounded. “Abuse! See, everyone? She’s cruel to me!”

A first-year boy, already gawking from too close, squeaks and hurries off, his bag thumping against his side. Shiori’s grin stretches wider, teeth flashing, feeding on the attention. She looks alive in it, radiant, ridiculous.

Tetsuko rolls her eyes, but the corner of her mouth betrays her, twitching upward. Shiori sees it instantly, punches the air with a triumphant whoop, and the victory is hers.

Tetsuko turns on her heel, bag strap biting into her shoulder, each step sharp against the pavement. Shiori’s sandals slap after her, jacket snapping in the breeze, her humming filling the silence with her presence.

Whispers follow them still, snickering behind palms, but Tetsuko lifts her chin higher. Not only out of spite, for once.

When they reach the bike, Shiori swings a leg over, settling into place with careless grace, and pats the seat behind her. She holds out the scuffed helmet - Tetsuko’s, with its old stickers peeling off the side. “Come on, princess. Carriage awaits.”

Tetsuko rolls her eyes, but she takes it, sliding it on without protest. For a second she almost longs for Shiori’s clumsy fingers at her chin again, buckling the strap too carefully, brushing her jaw. The thought sparks hot, so she smothers it, says nothing.

She climbs on, hands finding the back of Shiori’s jacket, fingers sinking into fabric that smells of cigarettes and hair wax, and - beneath it all - soap, faint but there.

A detail she shouldn’t notice, a detail she’ll pretend to forget.

Her classmates - Natsumi and her betters who made themselves late to their karaoke just for the gossip, Sugihara just for another look at Shiori - are already shrinking in the mirror, their stares dissolving into heat shimmer. And still, Tetsuko feels them, whispers sticky as sweat. Perfect Kisaki, the brain, the machine - caught straddling a motorbike with trash like her.

Except trash isn’t supposed to feel like this. Trash doesn’t make your stomach twist sharp and bright. Trash doesn’t wait.

And Shiori - Shiori keeps showing up. In new ways, louder ways, until Tetsuko can’t tell if she’s being hunted or chosen.

The bike spits them into the street, exhaust trailing in smoky ribbons. Tokyo rears up: a pachinko parlor bleeding GRAND OPEN in red bulbs, billboards curling like molted skin, Nakama Yukie smiling perfect white teeth in her DoCoMo ad as though she’s never had to ration prepaid minutes.

And still, spring insists - pale buds cracking through sidewalks, petals snagging in the oily wind. Tetsuko’s eyes catch on one drifting past, a fragile bloom skimming the blur of Shiori’s hair, and she thinks: flowers are foolish. They don’t care where they grow.

Her grip snaps tight when Shiori cuts too close to a delivery truck. Shiori only laughs - low, smug - swallowed whole by the engine’s roar.

Tetsuko smacks her shoulder in protest, but the blow just feeds the laughter, brighter now, shaking through them both.

Her chest aches with it. She hates that. Hates how alive she feels clinging to a girl who shouldn’t mean anything, shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t keep showing up in her life like a stray cat too stubborn to die.

The street hums with konbini jingles spilling from automatic doors, the faint static of a Kumi Koda song on someone’s pocket radio. A couple in matching tracksuits walk their shiba down the sidewalk, pulling the dog back when the bike roars past. Above, laundry flaps from balconies - pastel sheets, a Doraemon towel faded from too many summers. Ordinary life.

Her classmates will never know this version of her. Sugihara is probably hunched over his desk now, sipping green tea his mother brewed for him. Tetsuko should be doing the same - punishing herself for that red mark, mapping out how to claw those points back before it festers into failure. Proving she’s better than him, better even than the girls singing out of tune and laughing without a care.

Normally, she would. Normally, the panic would already be gnawing her hollow - and it did, for a moment.

But here she is, pressed against Shiori’s back, the engine vibrating through her chest, air whipping her hair loose. And the panic thins, blown apart by speed. The grade doesn’t sting the way it should; the numbers feel smaller than the curve of Shiori’s shoulder, smaller than the laugh the wind steals from her lips.

I just wanted to make you laugh.

Shiori eases the bike into the glow of a konbini sign, brakes squealing as they roll up beside the automatic doors. The neon hum washes her hair in green-blue, sharpening her grin until it looks wild. With a flick, the engine dies, and silence settles close: the buzz of the lights, the canned jingle from the door, the smell of fried chicken curling with the crisp air. The street still holds the brightness of March, soft sunlight slanting over laundry lines and scattering petals down from some tree just out of sight.

“Snack run,” Shiori declares, swinging off the bike in one fluid move. Jacket eternally half-falling from her shoulder, she stretches like she owns the pavement, then looks over at Tetsuko with that same dare in her eyes. “My treat. Well… someone’s treat.”

Tetsuko hops down too quickly, almost catching her shoe on the curb. She smooths her skirt, adjusts her tie, careful motions to scrape off the ride’s aftermath. “Not only do you drive like a maniac,” she says evenly, “you’re also broke. Do you have anything going for you?”

Shiori grins wider, hands shoved into her pockets. “Plenty. Legs, charm, and one very devoted passenger.”

“Delusional,” Tetsuko mutters.

“Mm. Funny, ‘cause you held on like I was the last thing keeping you alive.” Shiori leans in just close enough to make it impossible to ignore the soap still lingering under the cigarette smoke.

Tetsuko snorts, brushes past her toward the doors, steps brisk and sharp, but the corners of her mouth twitch despite herself. “That was self-preservation. Don’t flatter yourself.”

The bell jingles as the doors slide open, spilling cool air across her face. Inside, spring’s warmth is replaced by the sting of bleach and oden broth, bright fluorescents buzzing over shelves lined with weeklies and snacks.

Shiori skips ahead, humming a mangled version of the radio’s tinny chorus - loud, off-key, and utterly unselfconscious.

A thought flickers, absurd but true: Natsumi and her friends crooning at karaoke booths, lip gloss shining under neon, laughter practiced to match the rhythm. This might be Tetsuko’s version of karaoke instead - Shiori butchering a pop song in a FamilyMart aisle, sandals slapping like drumbeats. Is that better or worse?

By the magazine stand, two boys in another school’s uniform stage their own kind of performance - Shōnen Jump lifted high to shield the corner of an adult magazine. They keep darting guilty glances at the clerk, whispering behind their hands. One stares outright when Shiori struts past, nearly dropping the whole act. Tetsuko snorts under her breath. Pathetic.

She veers toward the chip aisle, her destination already decided. The red foil bag of Calbee pizza potato chips sits waiting, grease-stained graphics showing a melting triangle of cheese.

The door’s reflection catches her - cheeks flushed, tie crooked, uniform clinging where she wishes it wouldn’t. She imagines the chips sticking straight to her stomach, the juice she always pairs with them doing nothing to offset it. Her mouth sours at the thought. She yanks the door open too fast, snatches the first orange box she sees.

“Oi, jackpot.”

Shiori’s voice carries, triumphant. She waves a bag of chips in one hand and a neon-green bag of sour gummies overhead like she’s just won a prize, tears it open without waiting, shoving one into her mouth. Her eyes screw up at the sour hit, then she grins, cheeks bulging, candy stuck between her teeth like a cigarette.

“Breakfast of champions,” she declares, words garbled through sugar.

“Rotten teeth of champions,” Tetsuko answers, hugging her chips closer, like her own pick is any better. Did Shiori really not eat anything all day?

“Don’t worry, you can still kiss me when they fall out.” Shiori leans sideways, teasing, but her tone never cuts.

Tetsuko rolls her eyes, jaw tight, but her hand moves before she thinks about it. She plucks a plastic-wrapped onigiri from the cooler - salmon, the most basic one - and tosses it into the basket. “Try eating like a human for once,” she mutters.

Shiori’s grin only widens. “Oooh, buying me dinner now? Careful, Tetsu-chan, people will start talking.”

“I don’t care,” Tetsuko mutters, but her hand lingers a moment too long on the basket handle.

“Sure you don’t.” Shiori bumps her shoulder against hers, voice dropping into a sing-song tease. “Next you’ll be feeding it to me. Romantic, huh?”

Tetsuko exhales hard through her nose, resisting the urge to hit Shiori again, though her chest burns in a way that has nothing to do with the fluorescent lights. Her gaze slips to a tangerine Pocky bag on the shelf, and her thoughts hitch - unwelcome - on Hinata.

Not the same.

Shiori is a girl, for one. Too tall, too wild, and beautiful in a way that makes Tetsuko’s teeth ache, mouth full of smoke and sugar. No matter how much she flirts-

Flirts?

Maybe Tetsuko is the delusional one.

Heat prickles her cheeks. Ridiculous. What is she even thinking about? Shiori said it herself - she just wants to make Tetsuko laugh. That’s all. The rest - those flashes of something else - are just static, her brain chewing on scraps like it always does. And with Shiori, static always comes with dirty jokes. Nothing more. Nothing less.

“Oi!” Shiori bumps her shoulder, too close, brandishing a box of strawberry cheesecake Pocky like a prize. “Here, here! This one’s better than the onigiri. Perfect for the Pocky game, right, Tetsu-chan?”

The two boys by the magazine stand snap their heads toward them so fast it’s audible.

Tetsuko’s frown is immediate. “Do you have to be disgusting in public?”

Shiori just grins, tearing the box open right there, slipping one slim stick between her teeth like a cigarette. She tilts her head toward Tetsuko, eyes gleaming. “C’mon, it’ll be fun. Look - ” she mumbles around the Pocky, voice muffled but teasing, “ - they wish they were me.”

The boys giggle nervously, pretending not to watch. The clerk sighs audibly from the register.

Tetsuko feels her face heat again. Her? Please. Has Shiori looked into the mirror recently? She yanks the box from Shiori’s hand, snaps it shut, and shoves it into their pile of snacks. “Grow up.”

“Aw, she’s shy.” Shiori leans closer, eyes bright with triumph. “Cute.”

Tetsuko ignores her, stalking toward the counter, chips clutched tight to her chest, wishing her pulse didn’t betray her. “Do you even eat real meals?”

“Sure.” Shiori shrugs, smirk curling. “Cigarettes for breakfast, soda for lunch, your mom for dinner.”

Tetsuko whirls on her, face burning. “Don’t talk about my mom.”

Shiori grins wider, sharp canines showing, like it’s exactly the reaction she wanted. “So she exists, huh? Never seen her. Thought maybe you just hatched from an egg marked ‘top of the class’. Did she get sick of you and run off or something?”

The basket clatters hard against the counter when Tetsuko slams it down, too loud in the sterile air, and then the next words slip out, bitten out and jagged on the way out. “That’s your story, not mine. Keep talking and I might do the same.”

Silence stretches, heavier than she intended. The words taste sour already, too sharp, and all she can think is: they don’t know each other at all. Half a year now - Shiori waiting at her window, crashing her mornings, dragging her to rooftops and arcades, showing up at every spare corner of her life - and Tetsuko still knows nothing about her except the noise she makes and the weight of her presence. Nothing about where she goes when she slips away, about the bruises and smells she brings back. Nothing about who she belongs to. Maybe no one.

Shiori’s grin wavers - just for a beat, like something cracked beneath it. Then she tips her head back and laughs, low and scratchy, ugly on purpose, like it’s safer than letting anything real slip out. “Ouch. Fine. Point for you.”

It doesn’t feel like one.

She doesn’t apologize. She never has to. Shiori barrels through life screaming, shoving, demanding attention like an overgrown child, and people bend to it. Biting back is the only currency she respects.

But Tetsuko thinks of the Toman girls with swollen jaws and bruised arms, of Shiori shrugging and making up a lie about not recognizing their faces, not looking at their uniforms. And above the flush in her cheeks, above the frantic heartbeat, above the stupid flickers of Hinata in her head - she thinks: I don’t want to be like them.

No matter what Minnie and Michiru say, no matter the slogans or speeches, Toman is still a cage built on pecking orders. And Tetsuko - she doesn’t belong there either. She isn’t one of the strays clinging to each other for warmth, not a girl who sleeps on park benches or steals dinner from konbini shelves. She comes from a house with a security gate, from pressed uniforms and business trips and parties where her parents smile for cameras. She’s the brain, the machine, the “good” one. A walking reminder of the very world Toman claims to fight against.

And yet - when she opened her mouth, all she had to throw was that lie of an inheritance. That’s your story, not mine.

What a pitiful card. Not hers? A mother who drifts through every few months, her luggage packed with excuses, perfume still sharp from whatever man she left behind. A marriage staged for dinner parties, a daughter tallied up in test scores. That’s her defense?

Her stomach knots. Heat floods her face. She doesn’t look at Shiori as the clerk starts scanning, doesn’t want to see what her laughter is still covering.

The clerk is old, visor shadowing his eyes, gray hair bristling out like static. He doesn’t rush to scan their haul - chips, Pocky, the sour gummies already torn open, the figurative health concern in the form of the onigiri and orange juice.

Tetsuko knows what he sees when he looks at her - bleached hair clumping into uneven curls, makeup caked heavy enough to crack, her tie hanging loose against her spray-tanned skin. Does he see the brain disguised as a delinquent - or a delinquent hiding behind a brain?

She never knows which looks back at her from the mirror. She feels his judgment crawling, the same judgment she gets at school: too smart for this, too fake to be real.

Then his flick to Shiori - a full head taller than him, all jagged lines, looming more than she stands. The stink of cigarettes and gasoline clinging like skin, like a spark could make her blows up. And that grin - sharp, feral, unstable. The kind of grin that makes people tense their hands around their wallets without realizing it. Where Tetsuko is dressed-up rebellion, Shiori is the real thing: danger unpolished.

Together they don’t look like friends.

Tetsuko wonders if they are, if the word might stretch to fit them. The word itself feels slippery, something she can only brush against with the tips of her fingers. Maybe it belongs to people like Michiru - people who laugh easily, who seem born knowing how to hold onto others.

“You girls think you’re tough?” the clerk mutters, not bothering to lower his voice. “Don’t bring it in here.”

Stupid old fuck. She had been almost happy about the reprieve from Shiori’s face, and now she bites back her relief as she rolls her eyes.

But when Shiori grins, wide and fearless, leaning on the counter like she’s being complimented, Tetsuko’s shoulders lower an inch. “Relax, old man. We’re just hungry.”

Why does her aggression make Tetsuko feel steadier on her feet?

The clerk snorts, unimpressed. “Hungry’s one thing. Acting like punks is another.”

Tetsuko digs coins from her pocket, slams them into the tray harder than is appropriate. “Just ring it up,” she says, low. “Unless you’d rather I take it back and walk out.”

Shiori wheezes a laugh beside her, delighted at the scene, even though her eyes are still hiding something from before.

The scanner beeps once, deliberate, before the clerk finally speaks. “Girls like you… always end up the same.”

Tetsuko’s pulse spikes. The sting of what she said minutes ago still sits in her stomach like glass shards. Her fingers twitch against the counter. She imagines her nails dragging across his skin - plastic turned to claws, raking the judgment off his face.

But Shiori gets there first.

She lets out a mock gasp, staggering back two steps like she’s been shot. “Tetsu-chan! He cursed us! Quick, fight for my honor before I keel over!”

Her voice is playful, but her eyes are sharp, restless - fixed on Tetsuko, expectant. Testing.

It isn’t the first time. Shiori is always testing her. The first time she climbed through Tetsuko’s window uninvited, grinning through the curtains like she owned the room. The time she shoved a drink into Tetsuko’s hand at a gathering with eyes that said, prove you’re not boring. The night she dragged her into an alley just to point at some guy doubled over, wheezing from a kick Shiori had landed moments before. Shiori only lingers around people who bare teeth, who bite back. At least, that’s what Tetsuko tells herself when she puffs her chest up and squeezes her fists, every time.

She inhales once, steady. The words slip out flat, precise, like she’s stepping onto a stage and knows the script by heart. “Keep talking, and I’ll file a report with the health office. One call. With your shitty expired bread and your greasy counters - this place will shut down by the end of the week.”

The clerk blinks, thrown, and for the first time his glare falters.

It makes something inside her spark - sharp, electric. Fear, but not hers. His. She can almost taste it, and it’s better than any perfect score, better than Sugihara’s smirk wiped off his face. Her lips curl before she can stop them.

She leans in slightly, glasses catching the fluorescent light, smile thin and merciless. “Go ahead,” she murmurs. “Test me.”

The silence that follows is heavy, the beeps of the scanner suddenly too loud, too fragile. The clerk mutters the price, but his hands move faster now, shoulders tight.

And Tetsuko - she drinks it in.

Shiori doesn’t crack up this time. Her shoulder presses deliberately into Tetsuko’s, solid and warm, like they’ve just pulled off some grand victory.

“That’s my girl,” Shiori murmurs, low enough the clerk can’t catch it.

The grin she wears isn’t the feral one she gives the world - it’s tighter, warmer, something in her eyes that feels half-way between being cradled and lit on fire.

Tetsuko’s stomach drops. Her throat goes tight. The words land heavier than they should, coiling through her chest until her fingers twitch around the orange juice still damp from the cooler.

She shoves Shiori off with a sharp elbow, cheeks burning, but the heat spreads traitorously all the way to her ears. “Don’t say stupid things,” she mutters, voice thinner than she wants.

Shiori only smirks, humming satisfaction low in her throat.

The clerk clears his.

Tetsuko jolts, guilty like she just got caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Shaking her head, she digs coins from her pocket, and slams them onto the tray with a little more force than necessary. The clink rings sharp in the quiet.

Outside, the air is different. Cool against her flushed skin, carrying the faint sweetness of cherry buds, the endless buzz of traffic and the idle chatter of strangers.

At the curb, Shiori tosses her jacket back over her shoulders and swings a leg over the bike, patting the seat behind her like nothing at all has changed, opening her bag of chips with the other hand. “Come on. Seat’s cold without you,” she drawls, cigarette sliding back behind her ear.

Tetsuko huffs, cheeks still hot, but climbs on anyway. Her fingers find the back of Shiori’s jacket on reflex.

Shiori tucks the carton of orange juice under her arm, clamps the bag of chips between her teeth, and kicks them into motion. The bike jolts forward with a cough of exhaust, and the city peels open around them: neon signs flickering, the tang of gasoline in the air, laundry straining on balcony lines.

Tetsuko clings tighter than she means to when Shiori cuts close to a taxi. “If you spill crumbs on me, I swear-”

“You’ll what?” Shiori’s words come garbled around a mouthful of salt and oil, lazy as ever. “Kick me off my own bike? Break up with me?”

“We’re not together.” It comes out too fast, too sharp, and she knows she’s already lost the ground the second it leaves her mouth.

Shiori’s laughter tears loose, reckless, half-swallowed by the engine. She steers one-handed like she’s daring fate to knock them into traffic. “Yeah, but it’s fun hearing you say it.”

Tetsuko digs her nails into the jacket, hard enough the fabric pulls under her grip. “You’re going to get us killed.”

“Nah,” Shiori hums, easy, like the road bends for her. “You’re too precious, I wouldn’t let you die.”

The words slip past her grin too casually to carry weight, and yet they lodge sharp under Tetsuko’s ribs. Her throat goes tight, her jaw clamping down as if pressure alone could smother the ache curling in her chest. Pathetic. Is she really that desperate - so brittle - that something this basic could make her shake?

Yeah. Apparently, she is.

The ride eats the rest of the distance in jolts of speed and the occasional near-miss that sends Tetsuko’s stomach into her throat. Streetlamps flicker against her glasses, reflecting back brief halos of light. She keeps her eyes fixed on the blur of cherry buds budding along the roadside trees, refusing to watch Shiori’s shoulders roll every time her fingers tighten in her jacket.

By the time the bike skids to a stop in front of her house, her jaw aches from clenching. She drops her hands from Shiori’s jacket like the fabric burned her.

The air here is quieter, the glow of the konbini signs replaced by the soft hum of streetlamps and the faint rustle of wind through the hedges.

She straightens her skirt, fixes her tie, anything to scrape away the feeling of clinging. Shiori slouches back against the handlebars, cigarette still inexplicably behind her ear, watching her with that grin that never seems to slip.

Tetsuko exhales, long and sharp, and turns toward the front door.

“You don’t have to come up,” she mutters, already knowing it’s useless. “Just give me the chips and the juice, then leave.”

Shiori doesn’t even pretend to listen. She swings her legs down, stretches like a cat, and slings the bag of snacks over her shoulder. “Too late. I brought snacks. It’s a date.”

“I bought them! And it’s not a-”

Shiori slips past her shoulder before she can say anything - before she even steps inside herself. She moves through the entryway like it’s already hers, like no permission is needed, her forever hunch more pronounced in the door threshold, smoke and street clinging to every step.

The first time she’d done it, Tetsuko had nearly clawed her face off - who just walks into someone’s house like that?! But the second time, the third, the twentieth… now the door opens anyway. Now Tetsuko snarls on reflex, hisses through her teeth, and still doesn’t stop her.

Sandals kicked off, crooked. As always. Jacket shrugged down to her elbows, dragging. As always - and Tetsuko does not know how Shiori got through winter with that flimsy thing. Eyes darting, hungry - family photos, the shoe cabinet, the umbrella stand, like she’s re-cataloguing everything she sees five times a week. Tetsuko has never asked her what she thinks of the stone-faced little girl in plastic frames, and she never will.

“You keep moving that vase,” Shiori says, nodding at the pale-blue ceramic on the cabinet. A gift from her mother’s coworker - one of those business-trip trinkets, meaningless except for how it lingers. “Last time it was on the other side. What, trying to impress me?”

Tetsuko scowls, shoving the door shut harder than necessary. “I’m trying to stop you from breaking it.”

“You should. I break stuff easy.” Shiori’s laugh is low, not ashamed at all - almost satisfied.

Tetsuko exhales through her nose, pinches the bridge of her glasses. Already, she can feel her pulse ticking up in her temples. Shiori in the entryway is a bad omen. Shiori free-roaming the house is worse.

Shiori in the entryway- has Tetsuko gotten so used to her to-ing and fro-ing through the bedroom window?

“I have to study.” The words come out clipped, sharp, her hand already pressing against Shiori’s arm to herd her down the hall. “Bedroom. Now.”

Shiori stumbles theatrically under the push, chips rattling in their bag, smirk curling back up her face. “Straight to the bedroom? Tetsu-chan, at least buy me dinner first.”

Heat spikes across Tetsuko’s cheeks before she can smother it. She shoves harder, rolling her eyes so hard it almost hurts. “Shut up. You’re disgusting.”

Shiori only laughs, letting herself be pushed, delighted by the resistance, her humming spilling loose between her teeth, the crinkle of plastic bags, the careless crunch of candy. Every sound should needle Tetsuko raw.

Instead, it settles under her skin like warmth. A strange comfort blooming in her chest, both foreign and too familiar, like the glow she used to chase for, with Hinata, with Michiru.

How different these halls are, in the light of the day, with Shiori planted in them like a bad photoshop job.

– – –

Mom?

The word stirs before she can bite it down.

Her soles are cold again, pressed to the hallway’s wooden boards. The air smells of dust and old varnish. Small bare feet creeping on tiptoe and her breath held tight so the floor won’t cry out. Shadows huddle thick at the edges, every draft whispering across her skin, every pipe knocking like someone trapped in the walls. She calls once, voice cracked thin, whispering just to hear her own voice, not for an answer. Silence folds in on itself. The door stays locked.

So she curls tight against the wallpaper, knees pressed to her chest, listening. For breath, any breath, to prove the world hasn’t blinked her out. She stays frozen that way until the ache in her legs outweighs the fear.

– –

The memory knots around her ribs, binding tight, dragging up the number inked red on her paper, the weight of failure in her bag, every shortcoming pressed into bone - until Shiori’s humming cuts across it. Loud, tuneless, shameless, candy cracking between her teeth.

Until Tetsuko’s palms remind her where and when she is - still pressed against Shiori’s back, the broad line of her ribcage shifting under laughter, the warmth of a body that doesn’t hide itself. For a breath, she feels it reverberate through her, alive, careless, unafraid.

Ridiculous, that something so slight could matter.

They slip into her bedroom, door clicking shut behind them. She doesn’t lock the door. Usually she does - always she does - but with Shiori’s noise trailing her heels, the thought slips away.

And here she is, making a show of digging through the bag like she’s presenting treasure. “For you, princess. Pizza flavored potato chips, orange juice, and -” she flourishes the strawberry cheesecake Pocky, grin tugging sharp, “- don’t think I forgot about the game.”

Tetsuko snatches it, glare practiced, chin tilted sharp. “Idiot.”

She swears it’s this kind of company that makes her night cream fighting a losing war against creases already settling in - no matter how real they are. Fourteen is already too late, according to several of her mother’s friends.

“Mm, cute way of saying thank you.” Shiori flops onto the bed, loose-limbed, hair spilling loose from its shoelace tie. She rolls the controller between her hands, then glances up with the same mock-innocence as always. “So-study time first, or can I whip your ass at Momotetsu before you fry your brain?”

“You know I have to-” Tetsuko starts, sharp, but Shiori’s already grinning, already leaning back into the pillows like she knew the answer all along.

So she takes her seat at the desk with a huff and half a grumble, chair creaking under her weight, notebook spread wide.

And she loses herself in it for a while - at least, it feels that way. Pen scratching, numbers stacking one after the other, the comfort of order bleeding onto the page. The kind of work that usually swallows her whole.

But the rhythm doesn’t hold. Her pen stalls halfway through a calculation, tip hovering above the paper. The numbers blur, bend, curl into petals where her hand wavers, blossoms spreading in the margins before she even realizes she’s doodling. She squeezes her grip tighter, as if more pressure might force the formulas to stay sharp.

Her ears betray her next. Shiori’s laugh bursts across the room, raw and sudden, tangled with the crackle of plastic and the low hum of the PlayStation. She mutters a curse at the screen, gummy stuck between her teeth, controller clacking too fast, too loud. Tetsuko glances up, quick, then jerks her eyes back to the page. The pen stutters, skids.

She tries again. A clean page. Fresh lines. The sound of ink scratching should be enough to drown out the world. But her gaze slides sideways: to the open Pocky box perched on the blanket, strawberry sticks leaning like pink cigarettes; to Shiori, hair loose from its tie, bare shoulders where the jacket has slid, knees drawn up as she leans into the game, mouth curled around a laugh.

Tetsuko blinks hard, forces her eyes back down. Writes another number, then another. But the thought creeps in anyway, just like in the konbini, as shameless and relentless as Shiori herself: the stupid “pocky game” joke, Shiori’s lips closing around the stick, the distance shrinking, the snap of sugar breaking.

Her pen scratches too deep, nearly tearing the paper. She exhales, slow, turns the page. Order, she tells herself. Equations. Work.

But the question barges in anyway, abrupt, intrusive: would kissing Shiori feel the same as kissing Hinata?

Her stomach knots, sharp and guilty. Hinata’s a boy. That’s right. That’s correct. A girl - kissing a girl - that belongs in glossy pages she pretends not to look at, in playground dares between children who don’t know better. Not here. Not real.

And for the last time, Shiori’s just playing. You’re not the kind of girl Shiori would ever mean it about.

She digs the pen down until the ink pools black. Her chest burns. She flips the page again, as if turning fast enough could erase the thought.

Across the room, the TV explodes with a round-end jingle. Shiori whoops, loud and triumphant, then collapses backward onto the bed with a thud, arms spread wide. “Ha! Flawless. Don’t pretend you didn’t see that.”

Tetsuko doesn’t look up. She writes another line of numbers, neat and merciless, pretending she hasn’t lost track three times already.

“I’m bored,” Shiori declares, voice sing-song as she crunches another gummy. “C’mon, Tetsu-chan. Tell me something. About your day. About school. About your friends.”

“You’re loud,” Tetsuko mutters, eyes on her page.

“Exactly. I make things interesting.” The mattress creaks; Shiori pushes up on her elbows, grin slanting in the TV’s glow. “So? Who’s the favorite? Mi-chan?” She drags the nickname out, sweet and sour. “You two always walk home together.”

Tetsuko’s pen stutters. The silence is sharp.

Shiori tilts her head, eyes catching on the pause. “She’s cute, you know. Always smiling, always preaching about loyalty and friendship like it’s gospel.” Her grin tugs wider. “That’s your type, isn’t it? Real girlfriend material.”

The pen jerks, smearing ink into the margin. Heat climbs Tetsuko’s throat, tight and bitter. “Don’t talk about her.”

Useless endeavour. Is there caffeine in those sour gummies? Or did Shiori randomly decide today was the ‘interrogate Tetsuko about everything and nothing’ day?

That gets a laugh out of Shiori, but it’s the wrong kind - thin, ugly at the edges. “Ohhh, hit a nerve. What about her boyfriend then? Bet you’d love to tag along. You three’d make a pretty picture.”

Tetsuko whirls on her, glare sharp enough to cut. “Shut. Up.”

Shiori doesn’t. She was supposed to have had enough with the mother thing, she usually gives up when Tetsuko holds up the exit door in front of her face.

But now she props her chin in her hand, legs swinging careless off the bed, something restless in her eyes. “What, too close to home? You always jump to protect them. Michiru, Hinata…” She draws out the names like she’s tasting them. “They’ve got you wrapped around their fingers, huh? Wonder if they even notice.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“That’s why you like me.” The words come too fast, too pointed.

Tetsuko doesn’t look at her. “Don’t mistake tolerance for affection.” She fixes her eyes to her notebook, but the numbers won’t hold. They scatter across the page, refusing to stay still. Behind her, Shiori hums a pop tune, deliberately off-key, pressing every sour note into the silence. Then, softer, but sharper:

“Seriously though. Do you even have friends at your school? Mi-chan’s not there. Hinata’s busy. You sit alone every lunch, don’t you? Everyone’s scared of you. Must be boring.”

Something hot snaps in Tetsuko’s chest. She slams the pen down so hard the desk rattles, ink pooling black. “If you don’t shut up, I’ll throw you out.”

The silence that follows is heavy, sudden, thick as a curtain dropping.

Tetsuko’s chest heaves once, twice, before she wrestles it down. She drops her head over the notebook, pen biting deep into the ruined sheet of paper. Numbers come fast, too fast, lines scrawled with a vengeance until they blur, more than pretense. The noise of her own hand is better than the pounding in her ears.

She meant it.

She didn’t mean it.

Why did she give Shiori another chance?

For a moment, it almost works. The scratch of pen, the steady glow of the desk lamp, the whir of the console’s fan. No humming, no crunching, no voice slicing her open. The bed creaks once, then settles.

She risks the smallest glance back, ready to savor her victory - proof that she can push Shiori quiet, proof that she can keep her ground.

But Shiori isn’t lounging smug across the bed. She’s curled a little tighter, jacket hiked up higher, one hand pressing at a purple bruise blooming under her collarbone. The other digs at her own wrist, nails worrying skin already red. Her mouth twitches like she’s holding back words, a laugh that never comes.

For a heartbeat, Tetsuko feels vindicated. She told her off. She made her stop. The threat worked.

But the satisfaction curdles fast, slipping into something else.

When Shiori notices the look, her head snaps up too quick, grin tugged on like a mask. “What? Miss me already?” Her voice is bright, but her eyes flick sideways, restless.

Tetsuko whips her head back to the notebook, ears burning. “I did not.”

Should she apologize?

For what? She should apologize first.

She bites her lip until she tastes blood.

“Idiot.”

The air loosens with it, enough that Shiori’s shoulders drop. Her smile comes quick, too quick, spreading wide and unguarded like she’s been waiting for it. By the time it blooms into a grin, she’s already stretching out, legs kicking in the air.

“Sure you didn’t,” she teases, grin all teeth and too bright, like a happy mutt. “You were staring like I’m your homework.”

She props her chin into her hand, eyes gleaming, grin only growing sharper. “What’s the answer then? If Shiori teases Tetsuko a hundred times a day, and Tetsuko tells her to shut up a hundred and one, who’s really winning?”

“Shut up!”

“Correct!” Shiori beams, claps once, too loud, too bright.

Then she flops onto her stomach and grabs the controller like nothing happened. The jingle of Momotetsu - the game Shiori bought probably stole herself a couple of months ago just to play on Tetsuko’s TV - fills the room again, her off-key humming riding over it, as if the silence had never existed.

And that’s how they work. Barbs sharp enough to draw blood, silence thick enough to drown in, then laughter thrown like an olive branch. Neither of them ever naming the hurt, both of them pretending it isn’t there.

Still, Tetsuko relaxes the tiniest amount after this, the reassurance that they are fine - after wilfully falling into that trap, like reading lines off a comforting script.

“Hey, Tetsu,” Shiori says after a while, voice lighter, almost sing-song. Bored again, Tetsuko bets. “What’s it like, being you? All brains, all beauty, all attitude. Bet even your homework falls in love with you.” She doesn’t look up, eyes glued to the screen, but the grin sounds too wide. A performance.

“Dumbass,” Tetsuko mutters, but the bite’s gone. Her chest is still tight, though - not from anger anymore, but from the memory of her own words.

“C’mon,” Shiori pipes up after a beat, nudging the second controller across the blanket with one hand. “You’ve studied enough. Join me. I’ll make it interesting.” Her tone is teasing, but underneath it there’s a flicker of insistence, as if she can’t stand being left alone on the board.

And the strangest part is how fast Tetsuko folds. Usually she’d snap back, make a point of resisting just to prove she could. But with Shiori nudging the controller toward her like a dog dropping a ball at her feet, the fight fizzles before it even sparks. The word “no” doesn’t come.

Instead she exhales, snaps the notebook shut, and crosses to the bed with her arms full of snacks. The dip of the mattress pulls her shoulder against Shiori’s; she ignores the twinge it sends through her chest. The smell of fried potato hits her nose and her stomach growls before she can stop it. She didn’t realize how hungry she was. She tears into the chips, then pulls out the plastic-wrapped onigiri, sets it beside Shiori without looking.

Shiori freezes for a beat, as if she doesn’t believe it’s for her - that she still has a right to it. Then she snatches it up, tears the wrapper with her teeth, cheeks bulging like a kid, rice sticking to her lip. “Man, princess. If I’d known threats came with dinner, I’d have pissed you off sooner.”

“Pipe down,” Tetsuko says, but softer this time. “It was yours the entire time, you’re just stupid.”

Shiori just grins, and Tetsuko watches her. The dimple in her cheek, the chip in her incisor, like she bit bone. The way she eats, too fast. And it twists something in her gut again. What kind of life is this, where Shiori drifts from corner to corner, where a single rice ball can make her look that grateful?

And why does she stick here, with her? With her glasses and her scores and her family name, when she could light up a room anywhere else, with anyone else?

Shiori licks a grain of rice off her thumb, catches Tetsuko watching, and grins - wide, reckless, unbothered. “What? Don’t tell me you’re falling for me.”

Tetsuko digs her hand into the chips just to have something to do. “You wish.”

“Obviously,” Shiori shoots back, mouth already full again, words garbled around crumbs. She gestures at the TV with her chin. “Hurry up, your train’s waiting.”

Tetsuko huffs, brushing oil off her fingers with a tissue, and takes up the controller again. The screen bursts bright, cartoon engines clattering across pastel Japan. Shiori plays with too much noise, cheering when she wins, groaning like she’s been gutted when she lands on a bad square.

Irritating.

Tetsuko doesn’t tell her to quiet down again.

“Ha! Bankruptcy,” Shiori crows as her own icon sputters into debt. She laughs louder than the music, kicks her legs into the air like it’s the best thing that’s happened all night.

“You’re an idiot.” Tetsuko’s voice is dry, but her grip on the controller loosens. “That’s the whole point of the game.”

“And I’m great at it.” Shiori leans into her side, shoulder digging into her arm, cheek too close, violet eyes flashing. “C’mon, look at that face -” she tilts the controller so Tetsuko has no choice but to watch her little character crying on the screen, “- adorable.”

Tetsuko bites the inside of her cheek, fights a smile, and jerks her eyes back to the board. “You’re pathetic.”

“Pathetically good at making you smile.”

Tetsuko elbows her hard, but Shiori only yelps theatrically and collapses sideways, head landing on Tetsuko’s shoulder. The controller wobbles in her hands, chips crinkle under their thighs. Tetsuko stiffens - then, traitorously, doesn’t move her away.

The game rolls on. Shiori wins more often than she loses, but once - just once - she stops right before buying the winning property, lets the timer tick dangerously low before “accidentally” choosing the wrong square. Tetsuko surges past, victorious.

She turns, suspicious, ready to call her out - but Shiori’s grin is already waiting, sharp and soft all at once.

“See?” Shiori says, bumping their shoulders. “Told you I’d make it interesting.”

Tetsuko’s chest twists. She grabs the Pocky bag just for something to do with her hands, crunching one down too fast, before Shiori leans in, eyes glittering.

“Ohhh,” Shiori drawls, grin tugging wide. “So that’s why you bought them. You wanna play.” She bites the air twice, deliberately stupid, like a dog snapping at a treat.

“I do not.” Tetsuko’s glare is instant. Her ears burn anyway.

“C’mon, Tetsu-chan, the Pocky game’s a classic. Middle school 101. What, scared of losing?”

“You’re disgusting.”

““Finally, someone appreciates my talents.” Shiori flops back on the pillows, still chewing chips, still smirking. “Bet you’d win against Hakkai, though. She’d combust if Mitsuya so much as breathed in her direction - imagine trying to get within two centimeters of her face.”

Tetsuko snorts before she can stop herself. “She’d die on the spot.”

Shiori barks, nearly spraying crumbs. “Oh my god, yes. ‘Mitsuya-senpai this, Mitsuya-senpai that.’ She’d lose the Pocky game by fainting before the halfway mark.”

“And then apologize for fainting,” Tetsuko adds, deadpan.

That sets Shiori off, wheezing, her long legs kicking against the mattress. “Senpai, gomenasai, I dishonored the Pocky stick-”

“Shut up,” Tetsuko snorts, covering her mouth with her hand. “You’re actually stupid.”

But she’s laughing too, and it only fuels Shiori.

“She’d do better than Hanemiya,” Shiori presses, wiping her eyes. “You know she’d drag Chifuyu into it just to make Baji jealous. Chifuyu would play along like it’s some noble sacrifice-‘anything for you, Baji-san’--and Baji wouldn’t even notice ‘cause she’s too busy headbutting a vending machine.”

Tetsuko wheezes so hard it hurts, doubling over her chips packet. “She would headbutt a vending machine.”

Shiori pounds her fist into the blanket, laughter spilling out harder than the moment deserves, wheezing like she can’t stop herself. Her eyes don’t leave Tetsuko’s face, sharp and bright even as she chokes on her own cackling. “For justice!” she manages between gasps, far too delighted by her own joke.

Tetsuko can barely breathe, her glasses sliding down her nose, cheeks aching. “For justice,” she echoes, voice cracked, and that alone sends Shiori into another fit.

“Hanemiya would make it worse,” Shiori gasps, clutching her ribs. “She’d to wedge herself in-‘no fair, Baji only looks at her-’”

“- and then she’d sabotage the game by biting the stick in half just to ruin it,” Tetsuko chokes, slamming her hand against the bed for balance.

Shiori howls, face buried in the blanket. “YES, YES, and Chifuyu would thank her for it! Like, ‘thank you Hanemiya-san, you saved my purity! My first kiss should be for Baji-san’s perfect lips only!’”

They’re shrieking now, rolling into each other, the game long forgotten, chips crushed to dust beneath them.

Shiori gasps, voice cracking around the laughter. “Oh my god - Tetsu - listen - Haruko would totally try it with Minnie, right? Just walking after her with a Pocky stick dangling out of her mouth -”

Tetsuko wheezes so hard she has to clutch her stomach - something cathartic about all this. “And Minnie wouldn’t even glance at her! Just - ‘ugh, why is she breathing near me again?’”

Shiori shoots upright, mascara streaking, tears spilling, almost choking on her own laughter. “YES! And picture them next to Koko and Inui - just staring, not moving, Death Note opening blasting in their heads while they die inside ‘cause they’re both too chickenshit to lean in!”

Tetsuko slaps her thigh, breathless. “They’d sit there for an hour while Koko sneaks glances at Akio’s picture in her wallet-stop, I can’t -”

That breaks Shiori completely. She doubles over, long legs kicking at the floor, voice breaking into wheezes. “NOT THE BROTHER - oh my god - she would-”

They’re both gone now, tears streaking, stomachs cramped from laughing. Tetsuko tries to catch her breath, but one look at Shiori’s contorted face sets her off again, helpless, snorting until she has to cover her mouth.

By the time Tetsuko finally collapses flat, vision blurred with tears, her lungs feel split open. Every breath is a ragged snort, every exhale trembling on the edge of another fit. Beside her, Shiori lies tangled in the blanket, hair loose across her cheek, laughter still leaking out in uneven bursts. It takes a long moment before it ebbs into something quieter, their ribs aching, the silence thick but warm, like steam after a boil.

Tetsuko stares at the ceiling, still catching her breath.

Somewhere, like an echo from another life, she hears Michiru’s voice: Don’t make fun of people, it’s cruel, it makes you small. Always be better than that. She can almost see Michiru’s steady smile, her easy kindness like a rule to live by.

A pang twists sharp in her gut. Maybe she should feel ashamed. Maybe she should sit up straighter, apologize for the jokes, press her face back into the safe mask of discipline and grace.

But her chest is still warm, and the ache in her cheeks feels alive in a way kindness never managed. With Shiori, cruelty isn’t shameful, it isn’t wrong - it’s sharp, intoxicating, a blade they pass between them until it sings. She likes it. She likes how it burns in her throat and rattles her ribs, how the meanness lands and Shiori only laughs harder, feeding it back to her. No guilt, no rules, no lessons to bite her tongue bloody. Just the raw edge of it, vicious and gleeful, and the knowledge that someone else delights in it too.

It feels good. Too good. And maybe that’s all friendship really is - finding the one person who won’t flinch when you bare your teeth.

She shifts, meaning to sit up, push herself back toward the safety of her desk, but her gaze snags before she can move away - on Shiori, head tipped back against the blanket, breath leaving her mouth in a slow exhale. Her lips are parted, gloss eaten away by sugar and salt, a faint shine left behind like the last trace of light on water.

And the air tilts with it.

Tetsuko’s chest lurches before she can stop it, an ache that feels like falling forward. And then she is falling, not thinking, just the startled brush of her mouth against Shiori’s. It’s clumsy, fast - the tiniest catch of lips, barely more than a breath.

Her body reacts before her brain does: she jerks back, face blazing hot, glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose. The words tumble raw out of her throat. “I - I didn’t-sorry, I wasn’t -”

But Shiori doesn’t give her room to finish. Her hand snaps around Tetsuko’s wrist, warm and calloused, and she leans in with an ease that feels like gravity. The kiss lands firmer this time, certain.

Tetsuko’s lungs seize. Shiori’s mouth is warm and sweet with the faint sting of sour gummies, smoke clinging at the edges, salt still caught on her skin. Their noses bump; their knees brush awkwardly where they’ve sprawled beside each other on the bed. Tetsuko feels her free hand twitch uselessly in her lap, then hover - before she lets it drop, fingers curling tight into the blanket, grounding herself.

Her heart hammers so hard she can feel it in her throat. Shiori’s thumb shifts against her wrist - clinging, like letting go would make the moment vanish. Every second stretches long, full of the sound of their breathing - quick, shallow, uneven - until it feels like the whole room is pulsing with it.

The kiss itself is simple, almost innocent. Just lips, pressed together, the faint tack of sugar at the seam, the warmth of skin on skin. But it sears through Tetsuko all the same, dizzying, spinning. She can taste the sour candy still clinging to Shiori’s mouth, the trace of salt from her skin, even the ghost of smoke at the edge of her breath.

She breathes her in: the faint soap still hidden beneath the street, the heat of her breath against her cheek, the weight of her fingers pinning her wrist. Shiori.

The shape of her mouth, soft against hers. Shiori.

The smell of her hair, sharp and sweet. Shiori.

The way her lips part just enough, uncertain. Shiori.

When Shiori pulls back it isn’t really pulling away, just hovering - close enough that Tetsuko still feels her breath ghost warm across her face. Her grin is gone, flushed into something shakier. She licks her lips like she’s trying to memorize the taste, violet eyes flicking down to Tetsuko’s mouth, then up again, then down. Hesitant, waiting.

And for a moment, there’s nothing else. Just Shiori, written over every thought.

Until the ice cracks through. Hinata.

Hinata, bright and boyish, the promise she made herself - her first kiss for him, safe, proper, right.

Not this.

Her stomach flips. The heat in her chest curdles into panic.

Tetsuko jerks back too fast, glasses slipping, breath stumbling out in broken pieces. “I -” Her throat knots. “I should… I should go back to studying.”

The words land heavy, clumsy, more like an excuse than a reason. Her pen and notebook sit exactly where she left them, waiting, the only safe thing in the room.

For a second she almost says it - almost tells Shiori to leave, almost pushes her out like she should have done months ago, faced with the worried frowns and the tight smiles. She’s bad news, Tetsuko. You shouldn’t hang around her so much.

But the words stick in her throat.

The locks are still opened, unused.

Instead she stays frozen, cheeks burning, refusing to meet Shiori’s eyes.

And for once, Shiori doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t fill the air with a joke to cover the silence. Her voice comes quiet, almost hoarse, breaking through the hum of the console.

“Stay. Please.”

It’s so bare, so unlike her, that Tetsuko flinches. She forces herself to glance over, and it knocks the wind from her chest - Shiori’s knuckles pale where they grip the blanket, jaw tight like she regrets the words even as they hang there. Violet eyes dart to hers, then away, restless.

Not a tease, not a dare. A plea.

Tetsuko swallows hard, throat raw, and nods once, tiny, almost invisible. Her hand itches for her pen, for the order of numbers and neat lines, but she doesn’t move.

Shiori exhales sharp, like she’s been holding it in for hours, then rolls onto her back and scrubs both hands down her face. By the time she looks up again, the grin’s back in place - crooked, clumsy, too wide. “Alright then. Rematch. Bet I can bankrupt you in three turns this time.”

Tetsuko huffs, shaky but steadying. “In your dreams.”

She reaches for her controller. Her fingers brush Shiori’s on the plastic, and neither of them pull away.

The screen explodes into saccharine jingles, cartoon trains zipping across pastel maps, and it gives her something to grip onto.

For a while, it’s just the game. The click of buttons, the flash of cards on the screen, Shiori’s muttered curses when a roll goes bad. It’s not quiet - Shiori could never be quiet - but it’s familiar. The kind of noise that doesn’t grate. The kind that fills the cracks before the silence can slip back in.

Tetsuko breathes easier. Her chest stops feeling like it’s about to cave in. She even lets herself smirk when Shiori lands on a tax square, relishing her dramatic groan.

“Rigged,” Shiori declares, sprawling sideways across the blanket, controller abandoned at the edge of the bed. “The universe hates me.”

“You’re just bad at math,” Tetsuko says, dry, and her voice almost doesn’t shake.

Shiori gasps, clutching her chest. “My own girlfriend calling me stupid. Betrayal!”

“We’re not -” Tetsuko starts, but the words die when Shiori leans closer, grinning sharp and bright, daring her to finish the sentence. Heat pricks at her ears, but she doesn’t push her away. Not this time.

By the second round, they’ve slipped back into their strange rhythm - jabs softened by laughter, insults blunted by the ease of them. Shiori calls her a tyrant for stealing all the best cards and Tetsuko mutters about incompetence when Shiori spends her fortune on useless mascots. Their shoulders knock, their knees bump, and neither pulls back.

By the third round, Tetsuko’s losing badly, her fortune shrinking fast. Shiori’s gloating with every roll, eyes glittering violet in the TV glow. “Face it, Tetsu-chan. You’re doomed. Beg for mercy now and maybe I’ll -”

The final blow hits: bankruptcy. Her train sputters, stalls, collapses in a pitiful pile of coins. Shiori crows, laughter bubbling out as she leans closer, too close, her breath brushing Tetsuko’s cheek.

“Game over, princess,” she says, voice dropping, softer now.

Tetsuko turns to glare - but Shiori’s already tilting her head, lips brushing hers before she can move.

It’s quick. Almost cautious. A press of warmth more than force, nothing like the sharp edges of her grin. And then it’s gone, leaving only the echo of it behind, heat clinging to Tetsuko’s skin.

And Tetsuko -

Her chest stutters. She thinks of Hinata again, always, like an open wound at the back of her head being poked with every step she takes forward. Hinata, who smiles so easily at Michiru, as if the two of them have known each other forever. Who looks at her like she’s sunshine, like loyalty and laughter are enough to change the world. They fit. Soulmates, everyone would say, if they cared to put a word to it.

And where does that leave her?

She imagines the rejection - the way his mouth would twist, kind even in denial, the way her heart would snap in two all the same. The thought alone makes her stomach turn. That would break me.

Then darker still: the things she could do to Michiru if it came to it. A shove at the wrong time, a lie whispered sharp enough, a knife if it came to that. Anything, just to carve Hinata free. She doesn’t like to look too close at that thought, but it sits there anyway, simmering.

And yet -

Shiori. Still sprawled beside her, legs dangling off the bed, crunching chips like the world can’t touch her, trying to hide her careful glances to the side. Alive, loud, taking up so much space it feels like nothing in the room has escaped her hands. Clinging to her for some unfathomable reason.

Tetsuko exhales through her nose, heat burning behind her glasses.

And she reaches for the controller again. Flicks the console back to the start screen.

“Another round,” she mutters, like nothing happened at all.

Shiori glances sideways, and for once she doesn’t smirk. She just nods, lips still stained pink with sugar, and hits start.

The hours blur. Cartoons flash across the screen, trains circling neon maps while laughter keeps breaking loose between them - sudden, sharp, shameless. Their shoulders bump, their thighs press, and every so often, between wins and losses, Shiori turns her head and kisses her. Quick at first, then slower, easier, until Tetsuko stops stiffening, until she almost leans in. Until it feels like part of the game.

By the time the sun slips behind the buildings, their stash is gone - crumbs on the blanket, juice carton drained, pocky box empty, sour gummies melted to their teeth. The room glows orange, then violet, then only with the blue-white buzz of the TV.

They don’t notice when the controllers slip from their hands. Don’t notice when the laughter fades into yawns. All they know is the weight of each other: Shiori’s arm curled heavy across Tetsuko’s stomach, Tetsuko’s cheek pressed against the warm hollow of Shiori’s collarbone.

Neon gives way to dark, the hum of the console steady as a lullaby.

And in its glow, they drift, held together by nothing more than the comfort of staying.